


The Lucky Ones

by Elunas



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 06:45:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elunas/pseuds/Elunas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas morning in the Stilinski-Hale household...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lucky Ones

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [katrox321](http://katrox321.tumblr.com/) for tumblr's Sterek Secret Santa. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it (even if the fluff gave me some horrendous cavities)!

Derek grunts as the weight on his chest rearranges itself with a little bounce.

“Seven o’clock, Papa?” The whisper is accompanied by a pair of imploring brown eyes that stare down at him without blinking. Their intensity makes it a struggle for Derek to keep the smirk from tugging at his lips, but he just barely manages and instead tips his head suggestively toward the alarm clock on the nightstand to their left. _6:49 A.M._ the digital display reads, and those eyes roll toward the ceiling.

The bouncing continues.

A practice in patience, Derek is making his son wait to wake Stiles, who is currently spread loosely not three feet away with his face pressed into his pillow, hair in wild disarray. The pillow does nothing to muffle the snores slipping out from between Stiles’ parted lips. The sight amuses Derek like it always does, making something curl tight and warm in his chest, though Max obviously couldn’t care less about how his father looks when he sleeps. He’s practically vibrating with barely-contained anticipation for the moment the clock reads seven.

Derek feels a little guilty for making Max wait — it’s Christmas morning, after all, and making a child wait to open presents is apparently some cardinal sin, if he’s to believe his son — but he’d feel even worse if Stiles were deprived of his last precious minutes of sleep. His job has been taking a lot out of him recently, and he’s spent the last week coming home with significantly heavier shoulders as the days pass. Derek’s tried to help as best he can, but there’s only so much he can do if Stiles isn’t getting the rest his body needs. And he hasn’t, with that clever mind mulling over one thousand different things as he lies in bed each night. It usually takes Derek a good hour of shoulder rubs and other less innocent gestures to pull his mind elsewhere before Stiles’ eyelids begin to droop with his exhaustion.

So no, Derek doesn’t want him to have to wake up too early, even on Christmas. He wouldn’t even wake him to begin with if he didn’t know Stiles would kill him for allowing him to miss Max opening presents. And damn, are there a lot of presents. Their son is _spoiled._

It isn’t entirely their doing, the seemingly endless number of boxes that are heaped beneath the tree downstairs. The pack _adores_ Max. Max, who is often as flailing and loose-lipped as Stiles, full of an energy that never seems to completely deplete. Who, at other times, hides behind Derek’s legs and goes crimson if a stranger tells him he’s a good boy. He’s quiet then, contemplative, and Derek wishes he could get into that head and figure out what makes it tick.

He makes Derek laugh, so often unexpectedly, and he’s taught Derek that no part of himself is as irreparable as he’s always believed. He’d kept a protective barrier up around his heart for so much of his life, and Stiles had pushed through it to kiss him and _break_ him with everything he makes him feel. And now Max, with his wide smile and tiny hands, who reciprocates every show of affection with joyous abandon and leaves Derek short of breath. Max trusts Derek without hesitation, thinks him worthy of a love that knows no bounds, and that is terrifying. Derek is capable of causing so much pain — it’s been proven, even as much as he wishes daily it weren’t so — yet somehow Max trusts him so completely. Derek knows he can never be enough for this boy, but even Stiles trust him with their _son,_ so surely that means he’s doing _something_ right.

Derek breathes in, sighs it slowly out. _6:58._ Max is chewing on his bottom lip and glaring at the alarm clock. “Okay.”

Max’s eyes snap to his. “Now?”

“Now.”

In the next second, Max lunges off Derek’s chest and across the bed the short distance to where Stiles is still snoring away. “Daddy!” he cries as he crawls on top of Stiles and buries his hands in his father’s hair. “Wake up, Daddy, wake up! It’s Christmas! Time to open presents!” There’s an undignified snort as the snoring comes to an abrupt halt, and Derek doesn’t miss the way Stiles’ heartbeat picks up like a jackrabbit. Several seconds of silence pass while Max eagerly awaits Stiles’ response, but Stiles’ eyes remain closed. “Daddy?” Max says again, in little more than a whisper, and suddenly Stiles’ mouth opens wide and out comes a loud, horribly fake snore. Max, of course, begins his jostling anew.

Stiles holds out for less than a minute before twisting around and grabbing his son. He pulls him down into a crushing hug even as Max squirms and shakes his head wildly. “Mornin’!”

Max squeals and giggles, “No, Daddy, presents!”

“Nah, let’s just not do presents this year.”

“No!”

“Laying here all day sounds pretty good to me.”

“Nooooo!”

Stiles looks over at Derek for the first time with drowsy amber eyes, and his shit-eating grin grows wider. “What do you think, Papa? Should we just forget about presents and stay in bed?”

Before Derek can so much as open his mouth to reply, Stiles yelps and lets his arms fall open. Effectively released, Max scrambles back and away, a mess of thrashing limbs as he hurries over the blanket and off the side of the bed. Derek watches as his pajama-clad feet slip-slide against the wooden floor, and then he disappears out the door.

The whole ordeal takes about five seconds.

Groans drag Derek’s attention back to the man at his side, who is now rubbing his face into the pillow beneath his head. Vigorously, like a dog with a particularly irritating itch. Derek huffs a quiet breath of laughter at the comparison. Stiles pauses in his frantic ministrations to glare up at Derek with the one eye not pressed into the pillow. “This isn’t funny. Your son is a monster. A monster! There’s slobber all up the side of my face.”

“And now it’s all over your pillow. Also, he’s just as much your son as he is mine.”

“Urgh.”

Derek can’t help himself. “You’re acting as though you don’t _enjoy_ the occasional lick,” he says, allowing a soft growl to taper off the end of the suggestion. Stiles’ eyebrow kicks up as his heartbeat jumps, and Derek slowly reaches over to press the fleshy pad of his thumb to the corner of the other man’s mouth. On cue, Stiles’ lips part, hot breath washing out over Derek’s hand.

They stay that way for several long seconds, simply gazing into one another’s eyes like the couples in one of the cheesy rom-coms Isaac is always trying to get them to watch with him, before Stiles finally says, “You’re an awful person, you know that, right?” and lifts himself toward Derek. Their mouths meet in a hard press, but it’s a slow dance, of lips and tongues and teeth and a complete lack of urgency, not the animal pace of the night before. These kinds of kisses are Derek’s favorite, with Stiles’ heady scent overwhelming his senses as—-

“Daddy! Papa!” they hear and reluctantly break apart. Stiles’ swollen red lips retreat and Derek already misses their taste. His gaze latches onto the narrow strip of skin that reveals itself at the hem of his tank top when Stiles stretches his arms high above his head, shoulders bunching and relaxing with a ripple of muscle that leaves Derek’s mouth dry. He’s saying something, but Derek doesn’t catch whatever it is, his brain fuddling with sleep and how breathtakingly beautiful Stiles is at twenty-two, having grown into his long limbs and lanky body with magnificent ease. He is truly a sight to behold, and in conjunction with that sharp wit, tongue, and charm, is a gift Derek has to remind himself daily is _his._

He blinks himself back to the present, at the hand waving in front of his face, and realizes Stiles is already on his feet. “Hey, big guy, as much as your ogling does for my ego, we’ve got a kid out there who I’m pretty sure is going to implode if we don’t hurry. Now get that handsome ass up and make me coffee while I make sure we don’t have any pre-emptive unwrapping happening.”

“You’re so bossy,” Derek says even as he untangles his legs from the blanket and climbs from the bed.

Stiles smirks as he sashays toward the door, laughing over his shoulder, “And you’re the lucky bastard who married me!” Derek rolls his eyes, chuckling. Yes; he is always very much aware of the wedding ring on his hand, baffled by it like it might disappear in the blink of an eye. That small band of gold is meant to signify so much that Derek had never allowed himself to believe he’d have; it frequently takes all of his self-control not to wake Stiles in the middle of the night and ask, _“You really meant that ‘I do’, didn’t you?”_

Lucky, indeed.

It takes another ten minutes before the little family of three is finally gathered around the tree in the living room, coffee having just finished brewing, music playing softly in the background, and gifts pulled out from under the tree for easy access. The tree itself is… well, _extravagant_ is really the only word for it. They’d let Max choose this year, and of course, after much careful deliberation turning down each and every one of their suggestions, he’d picked the most imposing one in the entire forest, eyes going wide as he’d finally breathed out an awestruck, “That one,” and clutched Derek’s hand like a life-line. Scott and Isaac had had to help them chop it down and drag it back to the house, where Max and Stiles had quickly set to work on Operation: Make This Tree Look Badass (or “Awesome” once the name was presented to Max). Derek almost feels sorry for the thing, boughs weighed down so heavily with ornaments as they are. Max loves it, had told them so approximately fifty thousand times since they’d set it up at the start of the month. It’s perfect.

From his place on the floor where he leans back against the couch between Derek’s legs, blanket covering his lap and mug of coffee held reverently between his hands, Stiles asks Max, “Are you really sure you don’t want to return all of these?”

“Daddy!”

“Alright, alright! Sheesh.”

“Go ahead, Max,” Derek says, cuffing Stiles gently against the ear. He ignores the swat at his knee and watches as Max dives for the first present and rips at the wrapping paper with abandon. Several seconds later, a box of Marvel superhero-themed Legos is revealed and earns a loud, excited, “Yes!” Still, despite the approval, the box is quickly put aside to be replaced by the next present.

Things continue like this for the better part of an hour —- _an hour!_ —- and Derek spends that time with his focus split between watching his son and watching his husband because no matter how much he loves seeing that boundless joy on Max’s face as each unwrapped present joins the pile, he’s never been able to keep his eyes off of Stiles for very long, especially when Max is involved. Stiles looks at Max like he’s some sort of sacred treasure (and he _is_ ), gaze soft and tender and filled with endless adoration. He knows Stiles’ pride for their son rivals his own, and that knowledge creates a tightness in his chest that only grows when he sees evidence of that love in the way that Stiles holds Max closely in his lap while Derek reads _Where the Wild Things Are_ aloud to them before bed, or when Stiles sneaks an extra cookie into Max’s lunch before sending him off to the Sheriff’s house despite knowing that the Sheriff himself will be providing Max will plenty of sweets, as well.

Sometimes Derek feels like he’s managed to achieve something remarkably normal with his life, supernatural elements aside. Like someone could look at his small family in their three-bedroom, two-bathroom house on the outskirts of the preserve, the toys littering the hallways and the three pairs of shoes at the front door, and think how terribly ordinary they must be. But then he’ll come running downstairs at the sound of Max’s cry before realizing that it’s not a cry but a shout of laughter as Scott shifts back and forth in rapid succession, Stiles whispering something in Max’s ear and making Scott scowl while Max just claps his hands and begs Scott to grow a tail. It’s then that Derek realizes just how _abnormally_ perfect they really are, and his smile takes over from somewhere inside.

By now, Max has made it through all of his presents. He starts collecting the discarded paper into a pile, one hand pressing some weird black and yellow robot to his chest, when Stiles says, “Leave it, kid. Go play; we’ll clean up.” Max doesn’t need to be told twice; he immediately drops the paper he’s holding, hurries over to plant a sloppy kiss on each of their faces, then races away with his robot.

Stiles snorts and leans into one of Derek’s legs. “Once we get all of these toys moved into his room, we’ll probably never see him again.”

“Mmm,” Derek agrees, hand slipping into Stiles’ hair. They sit in silence like that while the music continues to play, Bing Crosby wishing them a Merry Christmas as Derek kneads Stiles’ scalp and tugs gently at his soft mop of hair. After a while, Stiles starts fidgeting and Derek knows he won’t be able to sit for much longer.

Another minute passes. “So.” Stiles tips his head back and looks up at Derek, eyebrow quirked. “ You’re awfully quiet.”

“Just thinking.”

“Well stop it.” He shifts around and heaves himself up into Derek’s lap, straddling his thighs and pressing their foreheads together. “I need you here, in the moment, for your first Christmas present.”

Derek smirks. “Oh?”

“Yep, and I think you’ll like it.” He jerks his hips forward in emphasis, and Derek’s breath leaves his lungs in a whoosh. “But you can only get it on two conditions.”

“A-And what are they?”

“I want you to make all of us hot chocolate. Wearing your apron, because I love that thing for obvious reasons. And I want you to put together all of Max’s new things that are in pieces because I’d rather tear off all my fingernails than spend another four hours of my life trying to figure out how piece A fits into slot F. We also need to spend a significant portion of the day cuddling before we head to my dad’s so that I can torture you with my frozen toes. And I want a kiss. A good one. And we’re going to sleep until noon tomorrow.”

“That’s more than two conditions.”

“I’m a deputy, not a mathematician, asshole. Deal?”

“You call me such sweet things.” Stiles, limber contortionist that he is, manages to twist a leg around and shove his foot under Derek’s shirt. Derek immediately jumps and hisses through clenched teeth. “Jesus, Stiles, how are your toes still that cold? You were sitting under that blanket for an hour.”

“It’s a gift. Now do we have a deal or not?”

Staring into the eyes looking back at his from just a hair’s breadth away, the word "lucky" comes to mind once again. It may not be the life he’d ever expected he’d have, but damn if Derek doesn’t think himself the luckiest man in the world to be sharing a home and a son with this man. He’d fight claw and fang for his family, although for now, just a kiss will do. He closes the short distance between them to press their lips together. “Deal,” he says, and wraps his arms around Stiles’ shoulders.

Immediately, there’s a gagging sound from across the room, and Max - evidently having returned for more of his presents - whines, “Eeeeewww!”

They erupt into laughter, Stiles dropping his head to rest against Derek’s shoulder, and Derek squeezes tighter.


End file.
